


Scarred and Imperfect

by Proudtobeatheatrekid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Scars, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:19:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proudtobeatheatrekid/pseuds/Proudtobeatheatrekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Sherlock Holmes nor John Watson know what names are on their wrists.<br/>Sherlock hates the whole idea of a soulmate.<br/>John had the choice made for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarred and Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: referenced self-harm/wrist scars.

Sherlock Holmes had never looked at the inside of his wrist. He had seen blurs of it, but he had never looked. Well, he had probably looked before he could read, but ever since his parents had sat him down and told him about soulmates, he hadn't even been tempted to look at his wrist. He wore a thick watch all the time, the face on the inside of his wrist covering the small letters.

Sherlock Holmes didn't want a soulmate. He was quite happy on his own, thank you very much. People only served to complicate things. Whenever someone asked him what his soulmate's name was, he would sneer at them and say, "What, are you hoping it's you?"

It was refreshing when Sherlock met John Watson. John never asked what name was on Sherlock's wrist and didn't seem to care what was on his own. For two months the two cohabitated, without even mentioning the word "soulmate."

Sally Donovan, on the other hand, wouldn't shut up about soulmates. She talked about how her soulmate had such a common name and she’d gone on what seemed like a million dates but none of them were the one.

Normally, Sherlock was quite skilled at blocking it out. But that day, Sally took it too far. She asked what name John had. Sherlock had been kneeling over a body, but as soon as he heard the question, he stood up and whirled to face Sally, "Did you know that some people are actually smart and will let life happen the way it happens? So what if you haven't found your soulmate! Why is everyone so obsessed with this? It's just another way to falsely judge people!" When he was done, he grabbed John's wrist and started walking towards the street.

"Sherlock," called Inspector Lestrade, "what are you doing?"

"Going home," called back John, who was still being dragged by the wrist but had heard what was said, "On doctor's orders."

Sherlock didn't let go of John's wrist the whole cab ride back to Baker Street. Once they were safely inside, John said "Sherlock? Sally’s an asshole. We’re at home now. Safe.”

“Yes, I’m aware, John, I’m not an idiot.”

"Good. Would you like to let go of my wrist, then?" asked John.

"I-" Sherlock looked down to where his hand was still clutched around John's wrist, "I've never looked at mine,” he blurted out.

"Never?"

"I've always wanted to be alone. Emotions are confusing and complicated and they will always hurt you. Caring is never an advantage.”

John nodded and covered Sherlock's hand with his own. "Sometimes it's better not to look."

"Have you looked?"

"I haven't been able to see it in a long time."

Sherlock glanced at John curiously.

John waited a bit to see if Sherlock would deduce what he meant, then asked, “May I?” and slipped the thumb of his other hand in between his own wrist and Sherlock’s fingers.

Sherlock stood silent for a good five seconds before nodding and removing his hand. John rolled his wrist so that the inside was facing Sherlock, and Sherlock looked down to read it. But there wasn't writing there. All that was there were a series of raised white ridges with spots. Scar tissue.

"What-?" asked Sherlock.

"A man,” said John, “It was- it _is_ a man's name. I never saw it. My parents tried to get it removed," John traced a finger over one line on the lattice of ridges, "then they tried to remove it themselves," another line, "more doctors and therapists," John continued, “Boys at school… then me." He traced his finger over a line that went over top of all the other lines.

Sherlock placed his hand back on top of John's wrist, stopping the tracing of the scars. "I'm sorry," he said.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't sleep. He never could, but he was trying for John. He thought about what he had discovered today. There were people with soulmates of the same gender. There could be a man's name on his own wrist. For the first time in his life, he was curious about what his wrist said. He stared at the watch he kept on his wrist and the fingers of his opposite hand ghosted over the clasp on it. After all these years, did he really want to look? His fingers jumped back, running through his hair only to land back on the face of the watch. He thought he knew what it said. And if he was wrong, nothing had to change. Nothing would be different. But John couldn’t look at his, so Sherlock had to look for both of them.

He suddenly understood why people were so obsessed with finding their soulmate. And the way Sherlock saw it, if his wrist didn't say what he thought it said, then his wrist was wrong.

* * *

"Sherlock!" said John, startled, "Are you okay? You’re in my room. On my bed. Hugging me. Sherlock, I’m in my pants. Sherlock, _you’re_ in your pants."

"I looked," said Sherlock, his head still buried in John's shoulder.

"You looked? Why?” asked John, his arms wrapping around Sherlock’s shoulders of their own accord.

"Because I knew what it said. And I decided that if it didn’t say what I thought, I didn’t care because it would be wrong."

“How did you know?” asked John.

Sherlock pulled back from the hug and presented his bare wrist to John so that he could see the four letters written there. "I knew because I love you, and I can't avoid it no matter how much I want to.”

John looked down at his own wrist, fingers once again ghosting over the scars.

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, stilling the movement. “I don’t care what it used to say. What it says now? That’s us. We’re both scarred and imperfect and most people find us disgusting and unnatural. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

John smiled at his wrist. “Thank you,” he muttered.


End file.
